Chapter 35
The Mighty Hawk
The trail is both loyal companion—a close friend who is always there regardless the length of time between visits—and brutal challenge. The reason for the journey is irrelevant. Whether warrior, adventurer, explorer, or vagabond, each has a unique and personal relationship with both its blessings and challenges. The freedom and fresh air are intoxicating, magical things which can only be enjoyed by venturing from the security of one’s home. However, hunger is a regular companion. Only what has been packed or killed can be eaten, and no matter how lumpy or rough the cot, it will typically offer a better night’s sleep than the hard ground. At the beginning of a journey, the allure of the trail may be enough to lift the spirts or turn up the corners of the mouth into an exhilarated smile. As the adventure drags from days to weeks, the excitement can fade. The comforts of home typically taken for granted become things missed, things desired. Sleep comes less easily, and the slumber a traveler gets becomes less and less rejuvenating. Dreams are more vivid in the great unknown.
After weeks chasing an unknown destination through lands with sparse wildlife worthy of being a meal, Cialia had not quite reached the point where home became more attractive than the trail, but it loomed closer than she cared to admit. Each mile looked exactly like the prior, and every clearing where she and her father made camp appeared the same as the night before. The journey was taking its toll. Father’s stories grew vaguer with fewer details or twists, the sparse meat offered up by the land grew bland, and the ground seemed rougher with each passing night.
This particular morning had been like each since the journey began. The only difference being the types and number of trees lining either side of the trail or what was going on in the sky. On rainy days everything got wet and the horses struggled through the muck. On sunny days the damp leaves glistened, and the canopy had a magical glow. Right after a shower when fat raindrops still clinging to the leaves above would grab the light and twist it into rainbow colors was probably Cialia’s favorite time. Even that grew less exciting. Both glorious blades father had crafted for her sat unchallenged in her scabbards dully flapping against her horse’s flanks as they trotted down the trail.
Father did not seem to care much. He would whistle or hum, shout out what type of bird was flying by, or wonder aloud about the age of this tree or that. Cialia was tired of it. She grew increasingly depressed with each passing mile. If father had not made an absolute nuisance of himself that morning, she might have remained wrapped in her cloak leaning against the tree that had served as her bed for the evening until she died of starvation.
She was just about to complain out loud when she saw a banner flapping in the breeze. The standard bearer remained out of sight as they mounted a slight hill, but someone had to be carrying it. Simple human contact was not much of an adventure, but it would be nice to share words with another human besides her father. Not that he was poor company, but he had been her only company for weeks. She longed for the sound of a different voice or an idea from a perspective other than one she expected. Either would be a grand diversion.
The banner itself was black with a red sigil she did not recognize, a coiled snake grasping something in its fangs. Perhaps whoever rode under that banner would have an interesting tale to tell about the lands from which they hailed. “Riders approach,” she smiled at her father and gave her horse a nudge to quicken his step.
“Cialia, wait,” the reply was too late. She was already charging up the trail.
As she crested the hill, the prospect of light banter to pass the time seemed unlikely. The line of men marching along the trail two by two stretched as far as she could see, and the faces those men wore far less than welcoming. Father had always told her not to judge a man based on the way he looked or the condition of his goods, but on his character alone. However, when he finally caught up to her on the hill, he had different words, “These are not friendly men. We should get as far from the trail as we can until they pass.”
It was difficult to disagree with the sentiment. The dirty, scowling men marching up the trail wore matted furs and the skulls of some unfamiliar animal in place of helms, and they carried their swords in their hands like they were ready to battle. Despite these things, Cialia was just about to challenge her father on how easily he had forgotten his own lesson when the leader of the approaching horde noticed the two of them. The guttural howl he let loose seemed a sound an animal would make rather than a man. The rest of the group answered with the same sound, and they charged.
The beastly war cry filled the forest like the loudest crack of thunder, rolling across the trail rather than the sky. Coupled with the sound of all those feet pounding into the dirt, it certainly seemed a good reason to flee. Cialia might have considered that an option had the group not already been so close to them. Their horses would never move quickly enough through the trees to escape the savage men. She had no sooner decided to stand and fight when father said, “Too late,” slipped off his horse and drew his sword. She did the same. The horses charged off into the trees, and the two weary travelers prepared to fight the charging mass.
Agrimon drew first blood. His blade slipped through the bannerman’s neck and sent his head careening wide-eyed into the trees. Even half-lame he was a titan. Cialia claimed the second life that would die on the trail that day. She blocked an overhead slash with the blade in her left hand and cleaved the man’s head off with the blade in her right hand.
The beastly men kept howling and charging and swinging their blades, and the two travelers kept cutting them down. The bodies piled up until the raging mob had to climb over their own dead to reach Cialia and Agrimon. The sound of swords clashing echoed off the trees. It mingled with the howling, the grunting, and the sound of cold, oily metal slicing through meat and bone in a grotesque chorus of death.
Then Agrimon fell to one knee. A massive man with legs like the trunks of thick trees and big swollen arms dove down on him from the top of the pile of his dead kin and slashed down with his sword. The swordsmith blocked the blow and saved his skull from being cracked in two, but the force of it drove him to the ground. The next blow would have killed him if not for Cialia. When she saw her father fall, she stabbed the man before her in the throat with one blade and spun to cleave off the head of the monster about to slay her father.
She stood above him battling, but their numbers were too great. Her blades slashed faster and faster, but the monsters just kept coming. They pushed her back. By the time Agrimon had regained his feet, five men were slashing at him in unison. There were just too many of them. A blade sliced through his right arm at the shoulder. He growled at the man who took his limb and stabbed the bastard in the heart.
Cialia battled with even greater vigor, slashing and cutting, but she could not get to him. She screamed as she fought even harder, but the effort failed to stop the next blade from thrusting into her father’s gut or the following from punching through his heart. The final blow took his head off. It did not fly through the air spinning toward the trees or into the crowd but flopped unceremoniously to the dirt and stared at Cialia.
She wanted to fall to her knees and cry, to gather up the pieces of her father and hold them close, but first she needed revenge. Tears streamed down her face as an agonizing song of pain roared from her mouth carrying spittle, tears, and snot with it. She would kill them all.
Then a sound more terrible than Cialia’s pitiable song or the beastly war cry of the vile, dirty, and dishonorable men she battled filled the suddenly heavy air of the forest. All not lying dead on the trail paused to see what horrible thing could make a sound so beautiful and terrifying.
The great hawk soared above the canopy. The size of thing was hard to make out through the trees, but it seemed impossible. The body was longer than five horses standing snout to tail, and the wingspan was more than one hundred feet. No words came from the small battlefield, just gasping and a few cries that sounded more like fear than
war rage. The thing flew high up into the sky before diving down toward the canopy. Just before it hit the highest branches of the tallest trees, a light so bright every living soul who saw it had to slam their eyes shut to keep them from being burned out of their heads filled the sky.
Everything was silent by the time Cialia opened her eyes. A few moments passed before she could make out shapes again, like the bright circle one sees after looking directly at the sun. When she finally could see something other than that bright flash, all her attackers were gone. No dead bodies remained except her father, but he was whole. None of it made any sense. She watched his head and arm removed from his body. It was as if the battle never happened, but father was still dead.
An old man stood next to father’s body. His eyes grabbed her attention. They were black, like two small abysses sucking away all light, but were all colors at once, blending and cracking like a kaleidoscope spinning faster than anything could. His hair and beard were both downy white waves, but they were too white, glowing like a source of light rather than an object reflecting the sun’s rays. His robe was the same. He carried a staff in his hand. The end of it formed a delicate, chaotic mass of thin barbs arching around each other that glowed with the same perfect light as the rest of him.
Before Cialia could process enough of what she was seeing to come up with any words, the old man spoke to her, “Cialia, great champion of… What did he come up with? Oh yes, Varisghoul. You have been blessed with a great purpose, or so you believe.”
Cialia remained mostly speechless as tears for her father continued to stream down her cheeks. “But…” was all she could come up with.
“My name is Ijilv. That is not important, but you should know to whom you are speaking,” he offered her a friendly smile. “This trail seems never ending. Does it not?”
“Merkhal lives atop a mountain of fire far too the east across the cracked land,” the words came from her lips, but they sounded as if they belonged to someone else.
“That sounds quite far indeed. Do you believe it is a place you will ever find?”
Cialia was not sure but did her best to sound like she was, “Of course. I have made a vow, and I intend to make good on that promise.”
“Does any of this feel real?” Ijilv’s smile never faded as he asked the question. “I know you believe in your mission, this adventure, but I wonder how certain you are of it. I wonder if there are times when it feels you are an actor playing at adventure in someone else’s story. I must go. Before I do, I will offer this advice. You will never find your true destination until you wake up.”
“Please do not speak to me in riddles. I just watched my father cut down by vicious beasts of men,” Cialia complained. “I am obviously awake, as I am speaking with you now. Did you come to visit me in my dreams?”
Ijilv ignored the question, “You must seek advice from the girl who knows everything. She is connected to all things.”
“I already have a mission…” the words were lost as the old man vanished.
Cialia was alone in a field of unkept grass with her father’s corpse. Trees and trail had vanished with the old man. The shifting scenery slipped to a place in the periphery of her awareness. What did it matter where she stood? Father was dead. She knelt beside him in flowing waves of impossible green and wept. Her body convulsed as she finally laid her head down on his chest and let the sorrow consume her.
She remained there for a good long while. How long was impossible to know. Time means very little when consumed with things such as deep sorrow, rage, or blissful joy. She was in the moment just then. The sun could rise and set day after day. Stars could be born and burn out. She would be there weeping over the only person in the world she had ever loved. But then…
Confusion gripped her. She could not remember where she was, how she got there, or why she wept so strong. She raised her head and looked at the man she wept over. The dead face staring back at her was as unfamiliar as the dry, cracked earth surrounding the two of them. Her tears ceased. Of course, she felt pity for the poor, dead man left to rot beneath the blazing sun, but every soul returned to the Lake at some point. Could she shed tears for them all?
A cave sat directly in front of her. It had not been there before. Or had it? She could not remember. She looked back at the dead thing in her arms. It shifted slightly causing her to jump. Dead things should not move. Before fear could tickle her spine with icy fingers, the body crumbled to dust. After the last speck drifted into the air from her hand, she completely forgot why she crouched there in the soft, mucky earth. Her wet knee was almost enough to grab her attention, to sway her focus from the dim light glowing in the cave which may or may not have been there only moments prior. It was almost enough to make her question where the trees had gone—then the grass, then the cracked earth, then what? That dim light was just bright enough to keep all those questions at bay. She stood and walked toward it.
Chapter 36
A Familiar Face
An eerie dark filled the forest, not like night, but something different. The dark seemed an illusion, like light playing at darkness. A quick glance would fail to see the trick, but a focused observation could expose the ruse. The thick fog hugging the ground up to Maelich’s waist was the same. It kept him from seeing the soft forest floor beneath his feet, but it was a fakery. He knew the place too well. The forest probably had no floor.
“Maelich, help!” the passionate voice dripped urgency.
Another trick. Whether it was the black horse or the white horse attempting to rule his subconscious did not matter. He refused to let them.
His feet slowly lifted from the soft ground which may or may not be hiding under a thick blanket of fog which did not behave at all like fog and probably was not even there. After a deep breath, he closed his eyes and the fog truly was no longer there. The mystery of the soft ground was solved. It was there. He sent it spinning. This is my dream.
The voice beckoned with more urgency, “Maelich, help!”
He ignored the plea. Another ploy, another trick, another game he refused to play. Instead, he floated higher, above the canopy and into the open air. Speed steadily increasing, he rushed past clouds, dim in the dark sky, toward a moon growing just as steadily. The dark spots on the glowing surface become craters and ridges. The glow dimmed until it was nothing more than a dusty surface, a gray desert. He raced past planets and stars faster and faster until his flight abruptly ceased. The sensation should have been jarring, like a horse at full gallop suddenly stopping, but it was not. It felt like everything else had been moving and he had been stationary.
The planets and stars were gone. He was back in the forest. The fog had returned. “Get out of my head,” he complained.
The black horse stood before him with fear in her eyes, “Maelich, you must see what I have come to show you.”
His hand snatched out to grab her mane as quick as a snake striking its prey, but she was gone. In her place stood an altar in the glow of a bright light with no source. A dwarf decorated for the pyre rested on the altar. He seemed peaceful despite the great dwarf axe gripped by his hands and resting on his chest.
“Bindaar, old friend,” Maelich whispered. “Why do I know your name? Why do I call you old friend when I do not recognize your face? You appear a warrior with your mighty axe, so I assume us to be kindred spirits. But I do not know you.”
He touched the dwarf’s face expecting it to be cold, but it felt like nothing. “I know you are not really here. Neither am I, not really. Why are you here in my dream? I wish I could feel deep sorrow. I wish I could mourn for you. I feel we were friends, maybe in another life. If that is true, it is a shame I cannot honor your memory with heartfelt sorrow for the loss of you.”
“He was your friend, Maelich,” the black horse called out from beyond the alter. “You saved his life once. It changed him. You may have meant more to him than he did you, but you cared for him.”
“I have had enough of meeting you like th
is,” Maelich scowled. He failed to notice when he began to walk right through where the altar had been, but it was gone.
“Please, Maelich,” the horse begged, as he stalked toward her.
“You and Maulom are the same. I want more than riddles or mere pieces of stories. Give me something tangible that means something to me,” he growled as his pace increased, each step more purposeful than the last.
“Wake,” she cried as his hand slashed out toward her.
The world went black for a moment before his eyes snapped open. His clothes stuck to him and his beddings were soaked. Ymitoth worried over him, eyeing him suspiciously with those black, dead eyes which used to startle him so. “You’ve been dreaming again. It’s got you sweating like you’re burning up with the fever.”
“It was the black horse again,” Maelich replied breathlessly. “She showed me another dead dwarf. His name was Bindaar. His face was unfamiliar, but I knew his name just like the last one.”
“Bindaar,” Ymitoth repeated the name. “It sounds familiar, but I can’t see a face to put with the name.”
The flaps of the small tent snapped open and Maulom strolled in. Despite days on the dustiest trail Maelich had ever seen, the man’s impeccable white clothes remained unblemished. Everyone else looked as if they wore rusty, brown clothes. His lips parted between his perfectly trimmed beard and mustache as if to speak, but Maelich cut him off.
“The black horse was in my dream again,” he said, his tone sharp. “She reminds me too much of you. It seems the two of you work together to keep me befuddled within my own head.”
“Nonsense,” Maulom waved the idea off. “She is a witch filling your head with lies. Have no fear. I have been searching for her. When I find her, I will send her off to never trouble your slumber again.”
Kill the Gods Page 22
